


Phone Lines and Shattered Time

by pwnedbypineapple



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Canonical Character Death, Episode Tag, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pwnedbypineapple/pseuds/pwnedbypineapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the most terrible sound Roy Mustang would ever hear in his life, and it was the simple click of a phone going dead. Missing scenes from Hughes's murder. Brotherhood-based.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phone Lines and Shattered Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request I received from MoPotter on deviantART - to write, from Roy's POV, some missing scenes from FMA: Brotherhood Episode 10, in between Hughes's murder and the funeral. Therefore, it differs slightly from the manga and is strictly Brotherhood-based.

It was the most terrible sound Roy Mustang would ever hear in his life, worse than all the screams and moans of Ishval, and it was the quietest thing, the simple  _click_ of a phone going dead.

He wasn't aware of its implications at first - at least, not consciously. But as he stood there, still holding the phone to his ear, something cold and nasty was taking hold of his insides. The silence on the other end had planted a seed of suspicious concern, and now it was growing, warning him. Roy trusted his gut, and his gut was telling him that something was very, very wrong.

He didn't move.

_Hughes._

_A non-military line._

Was it an overreaction on his part?

_He didn't say a word._

No. It was not.

Roy did not hesitate a moment longer. Furiously dialing another number, he was connected to Central HQ's main line after several long, dragging seconds, and he started speaking the moment it picked up. "This is Colonel Roy Mustang, Eastern Command. A military officer by the name of Maes Hughes may be in trouble. Search all local phone booths  _immediately_."

"Huh... what?" a sleepy voice mumbled, sounding bewildered. "Colonel... what's going on?"

Roy seethed at the delay. The highest ranking man they'd put on the main line was a 1st Class Private, and the Flame Alchemist had no qualms about pulling rank. "You heard me, soldier," he growled. "That's an order!" This wouldn't do; it needed to be someone he trusted. "Get Major Armstrong on it! Report back to me as soon as you find anything!"

"Um... y-yes sir!" Roy heard a scramble on the other end and clenched his teeth. Why couldn't he have been transferred to Central sooner? It didn't sit well to be connected only by a phone line, to wait, unable to do anything, on people who didn't understand the urgency gnawing at him.

_I'm overreacting._

He could imagine it - Hughes, coming on the line in a matter of minutes, laughing and accusing Roy of paranoia. 'The line was just faulty!' he'd say, and then he'd insist on gushing over his wife and daughter, and Roy would heave a sigh of relief and pretend to be annoyed.

_An emergency._

_Not a word._

_Maes._

Roy's searching fingers found the edge of the desk and clenched it so hard that his knuckles were painfully white.  _I_   ** _have_**   _to be overreacting._

His instincts, honed in Ishval  _with Hughes_ , were telling him otherwise.

The waiting was killing him, making his hands itch with the need to burn something, and so it was almost a relief in and of itself when he heard movement on the other end once more. His fingers relaxed in hopeful anticipation.  _Now tell me it's an overreaction, Hughes._

"Colonel Mustang."

That was not Hughes's voice. That was Armstrong's, and where it was normally strong and stoic, it now trembled.

_No._

"Colonel Mustang," Armstrong said again, the words quavering. "Lieutenant Colonel Hughes... he's..."

_God, no. Don't tell me._

_Maes._

"Spit it out!" Roy growled.  _He's injured, he's hurt, he's alive, he **has**_   _to be._

"We f-found him in a phone booth outside of the command center. He'd been shot, Colonel. We were... too late." Armstrong's voice tapered off, shaking, and he may have been shedding tears.

The world tilted dangerously for a moment, grew darker, as Roy's mind tried to wrap itself around the very idea. His brain rejected it utterly.

"Colonel Mustang? A-are you still there?"

It was impossible. Maes Hughes was not  _dead_. Maes Hughes was a father and a husband and Roy's closest friend, one of the few people Roy trusted absolutely. He was cheerful and annoying and generous and ridiculous, and  _he was not dead_.

With a wordless snarl of rage, Roy struck out blindly. He punched the desk so hard that it sent spikes of pain through his hand, but he was beyond caring about bruises at this point. He was left panting with pent-up grief and confusion and denial and anger, and _why_ hadn't he been there? Why... just  _why_?

"Colonel," Armstrong began hesitantly.

God  _damn_  it. Who? Why? Roy’s head was spinning; most of him had not even accepted Armstrong's words yet. Yet there was a building rage, kept in check only by his shock and denial. Roy shook his head in disbelief, trying to remember the last time he'd talked to Hughes. It had been earlier, right? How could it have been so short a time? How could it have been the  _last_ time?

"I'm taking the earliest train I can," Roy said, his voice low and tightly controlled. "Where... where is he?"

"He's being transported to the military hospital," Armstrong answered quietly. "But... he's too far gone, Colonel. He..."

"I understand," Roy said harshly. "I'll be there soon." He almost hung up at that point, but he stopped himself. "And, Major... thank you."

Armstrong was silent for a moment. "There's nothing to thank me for, sir."

They hung up without another word, and Roy stared unseeingly at the phone. His hand was aching, but he hardly registered the pain. He felt... numb. Sick. Disbelieving. So, so  _angry_.

_Maes. What... what am I supposed to do without you?_

* * *

To anyone else, it would have seemed like Hawkeye took the news with her usual professionalism, but Roy knew her better. There was an infinitesimal widening of her eyes, hands that briefly clenched and then shook ever so slightly, and her breathing missed a beat. A few moments - that was what it took for the knowledge to sink in, and then she was looking at him with eyes narrowed in concern and sorrow. "I'm so sorry, sir," she said softly. Thinking of him before herself, as always.

Roy said nothing. He merely nodded, struggling to maintain internal control, and having Hawkeye there helped. "I'm leaving on the six o'clock train," he said, and he didn't have to say anything further.

"I'll only need a moment to get some things," she said. "Did you get a second ticket?"

Wordlessly, he handed it to her. She wrapped it in a hand that visibly steadied under Roy's gaze, and then her other hand came to rest briefly on his forearm - a single moment of contact that was all the comfort he wanted at this point.

"You should go home too," she told him.

"I may," he said. "I've got to get some things in order here."

She shook her head. "Then I'll stop by your place, too, before coming back."

"Riza," he said, admonishing. "You should rest."

"So should you," she returned adamantly.

They both knew he wouldn't.

Hawkeye gave him a nod and promised to return soon. She turned to go and had taken several steps before Roy called for her to wait. But the words did not come out as easily as he'd hoped. "Why didn't you go home sooner?" he finally managed.

She gave him a small, sad smile. "It was just a feeling," she told him. "I thought you might need me tonight."

Roy closed his eyes, listening as her footsteps disappeared into the night, and with a sigh, he turned to reenter the HQ. It was depressingly empty, devoid of most of its personnel by now except for the night guards, but Roy preferred it that way. He didn't think he could deal with anyone right now, save for a few. Like Hawkeye. Like...

_Maes._

He entered his empty office and gazed at the phone, waiting listlessly for Hughes to call him with another exasperating story about his daughter. Roy would give anything to hear those stories over and over and _over_ , if only it meant that his best friend was still there. Wasn't...

Roy sat down at his desk and dropped his head into shaking hands. He stayed that way for a long time.

* * *

The bloodstains had not been cleaned yet, as the entire phone booth was considered evidence. Roy hadn't even looked at the records room yet; he'd wanted to come here first. But he wasn't there for investigation. He wasn't there for anything, really, at least not for any motivation he recognized. Maybe a part of him had been hoping to find the killer or at least find some clue to who the killer was. Maybe he'd thought he would be able to sense whatever evil aura had murdered Hughes. Or maybe he just wanted to blow the entire thing up.

He didn't know anymore.

_Maes._

Roy could still feel that anger, that potent rage growing steadily somewhere in the darkest places inside him. He didn't turn it away; he didn't welcome it. He let it fester where it was, because once the grief and shock had dulled, he'd need something to remind him of what he had to do.

He looked down at the blood - his best friend's blood - and he remembered the look on Gracia's face when he'd told her that her husband wasn't coming home, and he thought about Elysia's confusion, and that rage grew. His fingers curled in an unconscious motion that would have created fire had he been wearing his gloves.

_I'll kill whoever did this. No - I will **destroy**  them._

"There you are."

He turned to find Hawkeye approaching him. She came to a halt before him, her eyes just as soft and sad as they'd been the night before. "I thought I'd find you here," she said quietly.

"Are they done with the politics?" Roy asked sourly.

Riza nodded. "They want to plan the funeral now." She stepped aside to allow him to go first, and Roy did so, turning his back on the bloodied phone booth. He'd be back later to conduct a proper investigation, and he  _would_ find the killer. He'd do whatever was necessary.

But now was the time for grief, and he had a funeral to plan.


End file.
